Meanwhile, far, far from provincial village, there stood a tall, quite old cathedral where the people often go to do there Sunday worships and prayers. The cathedral had been standing there for as long as the people could remember, and legend has it that in this cathedral, resides a mysterious bell-ringer who never seemed to come out in the light. He did wonders with the bells but no one has ever seen the bell-ringer before. Som even say that the bells rang themselves, which is, of course, a ludicrous idea. It was kept really well too, thanks to the funding from another mysterious man only the church members (as in the archdeacon, the bishop, the nuns, etc…you get the idea) knew as Scott or better known as SkullMaster.
His name didn’t go unparallel with his features: his head was bald and his face and skin was sallow and pale, going to purple. His skin was shriveled close to his own facial bones until it formed the shape of his skull. He had those cold, unkind yellow eyes that could pierce through your heart like a knife. He was tall and well-built, and he was as strong as an ox. He was the same Scott that went with Max’s father out to sea and was presumed dead, but he came back to shore with such a transformation and he came back secretly that no one except the church members knew of his existence. None of them knew what had happened to him or how he came about to become of such grotesque figure. He had told no one and no one dared to ask.
His return did not come empty-handed though. He had loads of riches which was still a mystery to all as from where he got them and he had been funding the village and the cathedral ever since, holding quite a power over it. No one (except the church) knew who had been supporting and controlling the village and the church for so long, and they—the easily contented—didn’t bother to find out, as long as their interests are well kept.
SkullMaster had a strange disliking for outsiders that come into the village to stay unless they prove to be of good interest to him. And that’s where the legend of the mysterious bell-ringer came about. For on one cold winter’s night, a group of gypsies wanted to find home in this village after many miles of moving. They heard about the rules of SkullMaster forbidding outsiders coming in and they decided to sneak in through the docks below the jetty that connected the village to the sea. Just when they thought they were safe, SkullMaster had the upper hand. He and his dark-hooded men came and arrested the gypsies, taking all their possessions with him. When a woman refused to hand in a bundle that was held protectively in her arms, SkullMaster assumed that it was stolen goods and ordered his men to take it away by force.
Without a doubt, the gypsy woman ran for her life. SkullMaster gave chase and caught up with her while she was begging for sanctuary at the cathedral he had funded. A tug-of-war between SkullMaster and the gypsy woman began and finally, he kicked the woman down the steps leading to the cathedral and it killed her instantly. It was then he realized that the bundle the gypsy woman was trying to protect was in fact a wailing baby. SkullMaster took a look and was shocked at what he saw.
It was a baby boy, with red skin all over and with two tiny slits for a nose and slightly protruding fangs for his first teeth. His eyes were a shocking yellow and his mop of hair was a dark-sea blue. On the side of his temples was a pair of little horns that shaped and curved like a bull’s horns. He had never seen such a horrible freak of nature.
“A monster!” he hissed as he took the baby towards the well nearby the church. As he was about to drop the baby into the deep well below, the archdeacon had came back just in time from his grocery shopping.
“STOP!!” the archdeacon cried, shocked at what he was seeing.
“This is, as you church people might call, an unholy demon,” SkullMaster said as he held the baby threateningly near the mouth of the well. “I’m doing you a favour and sending it back to hell where it belongs.”
“See there, my lord, the innocent blood you have spilt on the steps of our church! What have you done, my lord?” the archdeacon asked as he moved closer to the gypsy woman’s body in horror.
“I have done nothing wrong. She ran and I pursued. She died of her own accord.”
“Are you trying to add this child’s blood to your guilt? No matter what the child is, it is still a child!”
“Hey, my conscience is clear, old man! I said I have done nothing wrong!”
“You can lie to yourself and your minions, my lord. You may have funded our land, our village and our church, and you can claim that you haven’t a qualm,” the archdeacon said with utter disgust at SkullMaster’s indignant ways. “But you never can run from nor hide what you done from the very eyes of He who is Almighty!”
SkullMaster had no concerns for this hullabaloo religious talk (he’s not a very religious man), but he was afraid that there could be spies lurking around, waiting to catch him in the act for a murder, and that might bring down his influence to the village. He took a deep breath and said, “Then what must I do, old man?”
“Care for the child, and raise it as your own,” the archdeacon replied as he carried the gypsy woman into the back of the church to be buried properly.
“What?! I’m to be saddling with this misshapen…” SkullMaster look at the baby in disgust at first, but suddenly, an idea clicked. He smiled and said, “Very well, but I want it to live with you in your church.”
“Live here?” the archdeacon was surprised. “Where?”
“Anywhere, just so he’s kept locked away when no one else could see,” SkullMaster took a glance at the highest spot of the cathedral and said, “The bell tower perhaps. After all, as you might say, your Lord works in mysterious ways. Even this foul creature may yet prove one day to be…of use to me.”
And so the child had came to be a permanent resident to the cathedral, making friends with the bells and had his job tolling them. The loud noises didn’t seem to bother him as he got quite used to it. SkullMaster cared for him and he grew to be a quite strong and built man. Despite the fact that he was strong and built, he was a little hunched and his voice was a permanent rasp, and…well, he wasn’t too bright either (the brain a size of a pinhead). He was given the name WarMonger and he was only allowed to address SkullMaster as ‘Master’ and nothing else.
WarMonger longed to be with the people that he had seen down below from his high bell-tower but SkullMaster often warned him that he was a monster and if anyone were to catch sight of him would cause peril and shame, and, as the obliging little simpleton he was, he never dared to disobey his master.
“But, master, I see you go everyday and meet with the people down at the ground, and I never get to go anywhere…” WarMonger once tried to reason with him when SkullMaster brought him his lunch.
“Till now, my little simpleton, you do not comprehend,” SkullMaster said coldly. “I have told you many, many times that the world is cruel and wicked and it’s I alone who you can trust in this whole village. I am your only friend.”
“Yes, I understand that, master, but…”
“It is I who keep you, teach you, feed you and dress you. It is I who look upon you without fear. How can I protect you, boy, unless you always stay in here?”
“Yes, master. You are my one defender,” WarMonger sighed finally, tired of trying to reason with him.
“You are deformed and you are ugly. And these are crimes for which the world shows little pity, do you understand?” SkullMaster must’ve said this a dozen times a day. “Out there they’ll revile you as a monster, and they will hate and scorn and jeer. Why invite their calumny and consternation? Stay in here, boy, and be faithful and grateful to me.”
“I’m faithful, master, and I’m grateful,” WarMonger replied timidly.
“Do as I say, boy, and stay in here. Remember, WarMonger, this is your sanctuary,” SkullMaster said before he left, leaving some more tidbits for the little deformed red boy.
“You are kind to me, master, and I’m sorry if I ever had made you…”
“You are forgiven,” SkullMaster replied before he finally left. WarMonger stood there, staring until his master completely disappeared out of sight. He sighed. What was the use of being safe behind these windows and these parapets of stone when all he could do was just gazing at the people down below him all alone without being able to actually interact with them and talk to them face to face? The only people he had ever talked to face to face were the members of the church and he had definitely haven’t found favour in the eyes of the bishop and the nuns, only the kind, sweet archdeacon. All his life he had memorized the faces of everyone in the village and the ones who come and go to the church, knowing them as they will never know him, and all his life he wondered how it feels to pass a day not above them but part of them.
“Poor little guy, all cooped up here alone and stranded now, are we?”
WarMonger turned around to see Thor on his table, slurping on the flies that flew around the half-eaten grapes on WarMonger’s plate. He smiled; Thor has always been his best talking companion ever since he lived in this lonely bell-tower. Thor was an iguana rock statue which had a life of its own after being in the church for more than a hundred years. He didn’t know how he come about to become a walking, talking figurine or an immobile rock at will, but that’s how it goes. WarMonger discovered him when he was 5 years old and they have became friends ever since.
“Hello, Thor,” WarMonger said. “Glad you’re up and about.”
“I’m glad that ol’ bone head has finally left!” Thor replied, relieved. “He doesn’t know how to lighten up, does he?”
WarMonger smiled weakly and replied, “He has always been this way. I’m used to it.”
“Couldn’t talk him out again, could you?” Thor guessed that his attempt to persuade SkullMaster to let him out in the world was, yet again, fruitless.
“I just ask for one day to live among those people. I’d give anything, I’d dare anything just to live one day out there,” WarMonger said longingly as he gazed down at the people below again. “I can see the millers, the weavers and their wives, the sailors and merchants that come and go through the jetty. I mean they shout and scold and go about their lives, practically heedless of the gift it is to be them…”
“Well, humans are pretty ignorant about their nature when they’re supposed to know that they have the great talent in themselves.”
“If I was in their skin, I’d treasure dearly every instant out there. I want to stroll on the road, taste the morning like ordinary men who freely walk about there. If I could just have one day, just one day, I swear I’ll be content.”
“Why don’t you go right now? Just go down the stairs and march right out of the door and into the sunlight. It’s just that simple,” Thor said, which resulted to a horrified stare from WarMonger.
“I can’t go out there!! What if my master finds out?! He had forbid me to go out there, and if he knew, he’ll cane me!!”
“He doesn’t have to know,” Thor grinned mischievously.
“But…” WarMonger still was hesitant.
“No one wants to stay cooped up here forever.”
That hit WarMonger straight in the head. Thor’s right; why should he be cooped up here forever when his master and the people that live in the same village as he was walk free? Why should he be under his orders anymore? He’s already a grown man, for goodness sake. Well, he’s only about 15 or 16, but still he’s already grown! He’s not the small child who always cowers when SkullMaster snarled or scolded him anymore! He’s got his own rights!
After Thor and WarMonger exchange naughty winks, WarMonger grabbed a cloak and draped it over his body before, with agile arms and feet, slid down the banisters of the cathedral and set foot for the first time in the big open.
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